There was no other guest at dinner that first night, as my host had taken places at the theatre for Mrs Payne, Rupert and myself. It was part of the _role_ in their kindly minds to give me all the entertainment possible, and I fully appreciated it, especially as I had not been often to the play while with the Brettons. The piece they had chosen, I need scarcely say, was unexceptionable in every way, something of a tragedy, as far as I remember, of good if not classical standing, and Mr Payne himself had selected it for my benefit. He was an elderly man, a good deal older than my father, in appearance and bearing at least, but I did not find him nearly as awe-inspiring as Mr Wynyard had seemed to me at first, very probably because in the present case my host was entirely without self-consciousness, or the touch of shyness which is almost inseparable from the kind of life which Isabel's father had led for so many years. "If I had to go to law about anything," I remember thinking to myself, "which I devoutly hope will never be the case, Mr Payne is just the sort of man in whose hands I should feel perfectly safe!" In his heart, I think Rupert was rather pleased than otherwise to be my only cavalier, though he impressed upon me dutifully, and no doubt sincerely, his regret that the elder brother, Clarence, of whom I could see that the whole family was immensely proud, had not been there to meet me. "Is he out of London?" I asked, half carelessly, as we were sitting waiting for the curtain to rise, one of the unwritten laws of the Payne household being "always to be in good time at a theatre or a railway station"--or "is he only very busy?" "He is very busy," Rupert replied. "I believe he is getting on splendidly, but to-day he is actually in the country on some very pressing affairs. He will be back to-morrow, though; he doesn't often stay away more than a night at a time; my father can't spare him." "And how are you getting on yourself?" I was beginning; "how about--" at that moment I was interrupted by the rising of the curtain; but when it fell again I repeated my question, and in the intervals I was able to talk to Rupert without seeming to neglect his mother, who was happily engaged on her other side by her neighbour there, proving to be a pleasant acquaintance. "How about your novels? Have you got any more good plots on hand?" The form of my question was partly affected by the nature of the drama before us, which foreshadowed, even in the first act, a mysterious secret, handed on through more than one generation of an ancient family. Rupert coloured a little.